


And You Will Protect Me When I Crumble and Fold

by The_Sherlocked_Shadow



Series: Explorations and Explosions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Control Games, Desperation, Desperation Play, John is now in on the piss kink, Johnlock... in a sense, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm, Piss Play, Semi-Public Urination, Shy Bladder Syndrome, Urination, Watersports, Wetting, bladder desperation, let the games begin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sherlocked_Shadow/pseuds/The_Sherlocked_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John finds out about Sherlock's shy bladder syndrome, he's quick to help Sherlock whenever he can.</p><p>Little does he know, Sherlock's got a bit of a secret agenda...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Will Protect Me When I Crumble and Fold

It had been three months since Sherlock had, rather embarrassingly, shared his secret with John: his childish inability to piss in the public toilets. His... shy bladder syndrome. It hadn't been by Sherlock's choice, but Sherlock would have been lying if he said that he hadn't liked it at least a little bit.

He _liked_ the desperation. He _liked_ the idea of the tang of urine filling his nostrils as he lost control, the warmth flooding his groin and soaking his trousers. He _loved_ the idea of John watching him piss himself... but not because he _couldn't_ wait. It had to be because he made the conscious decision, not because he had no control.

Not that Sherlock ever _really_ made the conscious decision to piss himself. He had, on a few times occasion when his control games had pushed him a point that felt _so_ great to let go, and... well, he had had accidents that weren't really accidents.

He tapped his foot impatiently, tuning out the stupid man talking at the stupid podium at the stupid front of this stupid room at this _stupid_ conference.

He didn't know how he had ended up here. He and John were working on a case and Mycroft had thought it beneficial to join the conference- at least to listen- but it had by far stretched past the two hours that it was supposed to take. Along with the thirty minute drive and the four hours that he had been drinking coffee throughout, Sherlock just wanted to get out of here. If the conference didn't end soon, he wasn't going to make it back to the flat. If this conference didn't end soon, he wasn't going to make it out of the _room_.

Ten minutes passed without Sherlock retaining any knowledge of what the man was talking about. It couldn't have been important and it couldn't have been useful to Sherlock's predicament. All he knew was that his bladder was filling far too quickly, with far too much liquid, and he really needed to get back home. He could _not_ make a fool of himself here, not when his brother was sitting less than fifty feet away.

He knew John had already cottoned on to the situation at hand. After the plane ride and the trip towards their hotel, when Sherlock had uncontrollably pissed himself at the side of the road, slumped against John, eyes closed... well, John _noticed_ when Sherlock found himself desperate for a piss.

John was good about this. When Sherlock had been reduced to a trembling mass of piss-soaked detective because he just _couldn't_ use the public toilets, John had just, well, John had rather forced him to piss himself rather than keep holding it, but he had been good about it and they never mentioned it again. It was good.

Sherlock jutted his hips forward slightly, shuffling towards the edge of his chair. What he wouldn't give to be at the flat right now, or better yet, in front of the toilet with his cock out and pissing away his troubles.

Sherlock was conscious of John looking at him and he glanced at him without barely moving his head, his eyes seeking the warm, concerned, doctorly gaze.

John tilted his head slightly. Sherlock winced and looked back ahead.

He occupied himself with idle thoughts for the next ten minutes, thinking about the latest case, his experiments at home, what he might want for dinner and how great it would feel to release his aching bladder. The latter thought was, of course, unbidden and unhelpful.

Sherlock pressed his legs together, flexing the muscles in his thighs briefly. It wasn't unbearable, but it was a bit not good.

"Are you okay?" John whispered quietly, leaning a fraction of a inch closer.

Sherlock nodded, only slightly, without looking at him. He didn't trust what the look in his eyes might have said, anyway.

"Do we need to leave?"

It was tempting. Certainly tempting. This conference was a complete waste of time and he wasn't hearing any of it, anyway. But, there were thirty or forty people here, a few from the government offices, and Mycroft. Sherlock didn't trust himself to calmly walk from a room with forty people staring at him. He could pass it off as his usual pompous self: storming from the room in boredom, but he didn't think he could storm and he certainly couldn't stomach _squirming_ with thirty or forty prying eyes watching him.

At least, with the cover of the desk in front of him, he could shift his weight around and bounce his leg without anyone noticing.

Sherlock shook his head, just a fraction of an inch.

"You're going to be alright?"

The question that John was really asking was _are you going to be able to make it home without pissing yourself at this conference?_

Sherlock nodded infinitesimally.

"Okay..." John didn't sound convinced.

That was alright, because Sherlock wasn't, either.

He shivered, feeling sweat bead up on his forehead. He tapped his fingers absently, trying to distract himself.

He was _shocked_ when, after a particularly painful cramp and a bit of unconscious squirming, John's hand landed on his thigh.

Sherlock didn't know if he wanted to piss himself or jerk himself off under the table. Strange.

He swallowed visibly, squirming helplessly. John rubbed absentminded circles onto Sherlock's thigh with his thumb, his gaze straight ahead. For all of his misgivings, John didn't seem to mind when it involved Sherlock's health. Maybe Sherlock needed to almost piss himself more often.

Sherlock didn't have romantic feelings towards John, but if he got a good wank out of this after it was said and done, he wasn't complaining. And, while holding himself was good, very good, John _almost_ doing it for him was better. It was intimate. Good.

He sure as fuck couldn't piss himself _now_. His cock was about to rip through his trousers in his... arousal.

Sherlock's fingers brushed John's fingers in his haste to guide his own hand to place against the bulge in his trousers.

He, at least, had a distraction for the rest of the conference (which was finished in another ten minutes).

"You're alright?" John asked as he stood, looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock bobbed his head jerkily, bouncing his knee. He wasn't moving right now; he was waiting for the room to clear out. He pressed his back firmly against the back of the chair, sitting up perfectly straight.

"Can you wait?"

He nodded again, more forcefully this time. The idea of pissing was still second on his mind to the orgasm that he kept drawing himself to the brink of. Not _over_ the brink, because then he really would soil his trousers with a whole lot of mess, but just to the point where he could barely hold back. It was obscene, and Sherlock loved it.

"Come on," John said, offering a hand.

Sherlock clenched his muscles tightly and pushed himself to his feet. It hurt, but still he wasn't yet worried about it. He could wait five minutes. He could and he would and he was _not_ going to orgasm in public. Obscene as it was to almost jerk himself off with John's hand on his thigh and forty people around him, he just wouldn't _do_ it. Some things were _meant_ to be fantasies.

Sherlock made it outside without incident, although his trousers were a bit damp. The substance that they were damp with, however, was a toss-up in even Sherlock's mind.

"Gotta piss," he muttered, toddling for the alleyway. "Two minutes."

"You're going to get it for public indecency one day..." John muttered, although he didn't sound annoyed. "And how can you do that? If you're so _shy_ -"

"People walk into the bathroom. Most people don't go walking through dark alleys!" Mentally saying _thirty-seconds, thirty-seconds, thirty-seconds_ , over in his mind, he stumbled down the alley. "Stay there and keep watch!" Sherlock barked, vanishing into the shadows.

* * *

The second time was on the train to Oxford.

It wasn't a long train ride, but his inability to use the toilet on a normal basis screwed with his mind and his bladder and now he was regretting it.

Rain was pounding against the windows. John was idly paging through a novel. The toilets were unoccupied.

Sherlock crossed his legs.

"Can I ask you something?" John asked suddenly, looking at him over his book.

"I have a feeling that you're about to, anyway," Sherlock replied steadily.

"You say you have paruresis, but you piss in front of me all the time. You always barge into the bathroom when I'm having a bath. Or you don't even close the bathroom door when I'm down the hall."

Sherlock winced as his bladder cramped at the thought. "Yes, so?"

John arched an eyebrow. "Surely you understand why I'm curious."

"I do," Sherlock said. "I trust you. It's as simple as that."

John looked pleasantly surprised at the answer. He seemed to be contemplating it for a moment, as Sherlock took deep breaths through his nose to keep himself calm and controlled.

"I think I should say 'thanks'," John said, sounding absentminded.

Surely he had noticed? Sherlock wasn't even trying to be not-obvious. He was beginning to suspect that part of himself _wanted_ John to notice. He didn't understand that, but he couldn't be arsed with it right now.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, pressing his hand between his thighs again.

John hummed in contemplation before standing. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sherlock frowned. "Where are you going?"

"The loo?" John's voice sounded like a question. "Are you sure that you don't want to accompany me?"

"Accompany _you_?" Sherlock repeated, feeling confused. "What are you talking about?"

"It'll just be you and me. No one else watching. Put yourself out of the misery you're feeling now."

Sherlock sighed. "John, when I said I have paruresis, I meant that I can't use public bathrooms at all, with people around or not. Thank you for your sentiment, though." He winced slightly as a cramp seized his stomach. Heat welled against the tip of his cock, demanding release. A trickle of liquid spilled over.

"How _can_ you piss against an alley wall, then?"

"Because I was desperate, it was dark, the alley wasn't covered by CCTV, and the air conditioning unit in the flat nearby masked any sound. Please stop talking about it. I really have to go," Sherlock said crisply, wishing John would leave.

John sighed. "I have no idea how your mind processes all of this," he announced, before stepping out of their compartment.

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward, shamelessly grabbing himself now that John had left him alone for a moment. He hated train rides. He hated anything that was annoying and tedious and didn't involve adrenalin and cases. Especially when he was trapped between his willpower and his bladder like he tended to be on occasion.

He stayed in this way until the compartment door slid open again and he straightened up painfully. His eyes immediately sought John, but he stiffened when he noted the large styrofoam cup in John's hands.

"John? Please tell me there's nothing to drink in that," he said, without removing his hand from between his thighs.

"No, there's not. I don't... I mean, I don't know if you want to- We can just forget this-"

"Give me the fucking cup, John," Sherlock rumbled, already unbuckling his belt.

This, he had done before. This, he could handle. He was good at this. And with John standing watch at the door, there was no reason not to. Sure. Maybe his mind processed this paruresis in strange ways. He didn't give a flying fuck.

John's face rushed a terribly bright shade of red. His hands were shaking as he handed the cup over to Sherlock.

"Did I ever mention that I love you, John?" he said lowly, without thinking, as he undid his zip.

John suddenly froze, his face turning, if possible, even more red, his ears and neck following suit.

"I did not mean that in the literal sense, so do please relax," Sherlock said, shuffling forward to the edge of the seat.

John's brain was feverishly working, but he didn't seem to be able to find the words, and very quickly the silence was disturbed by Sherlock's piss hitting the bottom of the styrofoam cup.

Sherlock watched as John flinched at the sound, his eyes jumping to the source of the noise instinctively before immediately away. Sherlock didn't care- he didn't have problems with pissing around John, like he said- but closed his eyes in relief.

John mumbled something under his breath that Sherlock didn't catch.

"What?"

"You-" John stopped as though he had hit a brick wall in the speech department.

"Yes?"

So what if they were having a conversation over the splashing of his urine hitting the quickly building liquid.

"How can you manage to piss so _gracefully_ when you were about to piss yourself?" John spewed. "In a bleeding styrofoam cup, no less. It's hardly fair."

"Control, John," he said calmly as his stream ebbed away. "I could easily train you in the art of desperation, but I don't think you want to play piss games with me," he said, giving himself a shake before tugging himself, one-handedly, back into his trousers. "Did you pick up a lid for this?" he asked, nodding to the styrofoam cup.

John flushed again and nodded, producing the lid. Sherlock capped off the warm beverage cup, setting it absently in the cup holder.

"I..." John swallowed, finally moving away from the door. His cheeks were flushed. Breathing slightly elevated.

Oh fucking _hell_. Was John-

John gave a little laugh, leaning back against his seat. "The science of desperation, eh?"

Sherlock nodded without missing a beat, although he wondered what was prompting this. "I could teach you. It's actually quite pleasurable... until about the point that you have to piss so badly that your bladder feels about to rupture."

John looked concerned for a half second, before it cleared, although he looked to the window afterwards.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment.

Interesting.

* * *

 When it happened again, it was a planned accident.

Sherlock had started the morning with tea and coffee, and a tea for John, who had questioned why he had made him tea, but Sherlock had only shrugged.

"Can't I make you tea?"

he had inquired and, after sniffing at the tea, John had shrugged and accepted it without another question.

There had been nothing wrong with it. It was just tea. But Sherlock was trying to get John's stomach filled with liquid so that he would, inevitably, after all the chases and the cab rides and the _No, John, we don't have time to stop!_ , be properly desperate. And it was essential to Sherlock's plan that John was just as desperate, if not worse off, than Sherlock.

They were finally in a cab, on their way home, and John's desperation was obvious. He was sweating, his fingers were tapping, foot occasionally bouncing, and his hips shifted in obvious ways as he waited for their destination.

Sherlock, while finding this a turn-on, knew that the mechanics behind watching John being desperate was making him worse off: he also hadn't gone to the bathroom and he was quite full. He, however, did not plan on getting to the toilet.

This was thrilling as well as it was frightening. Planned accidents were different when there were people around. Sure, Sherlock had had days to himself, where he would drink tea after tea and large mugs of coffee, taunting his bladder, releasing drop by drop until he finally gave himself the approval, soaking his trousers and whatever else he happened to be standing or sitting on. But a planned accident that had to be _perfect_?

Sherlock groaned, bucking his hips forward.

John looked at him sharply. His expression was panicked. "Sherlock, do not piss yourself. I can't-" He sucked in a deep breath, his hand clenching into a tight fist.

"I can't help it!" Sherlock hissed, squirming more than was really necessary. His hip bumped against John's and he heard John suck in another breath. "Neither of us has had time to go!"

He leaned forward, heart pounding in his ears. He really was quite desperate; he was acting up a bit, to taunt John, but he really did need this.

He had thrown money at the cabbie before they arrived at Baker Street and he pushed the door open frantically. He had barely bounded up the first step when he felt the first trickle, and had only just hit the landing when he started pissing openly. He ran up the last few steps, feeling urine rush down his legs and spray onto the steps as he ran.

He doubled over at the theshold of their flat, shoving his hands in his crotch. Urine poured hot and heavy over his fingers as he gasped in relief.

John made a strangled noise, coming to a sudden stop.

"Sorry, so sorry-" Sherlock gasped, groaning lowly afterwards.

"Shit!" John announced loudly.

Sherlock jumped despite himself and looked up, in time to see John sprinting to the bathroom. Sherlock collapsed to his knees in the puddle of his own piss, breathing heavily.

Oh. That was good. That was really good. John had nearly pissed himself. John had to be so very close to completely soaking his jeans _right next to Sherlock_.

Sherlock came so fast that the noise that escaped his lips was nothing _human_.

He was still gasping for breath when John slowly walked down the hall and into the kitchen, his steps steady and his head high, although his cheeks were beet red. His eyes were glazed, pupils dilated, breathing elevated, and Sherlock wondered what his pulse was like...

John stopped, looking down at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back at him, breathing heavily.

"... John..." he said, his voice a strange mixture of husky and pained. "John," he tried again, feeling slightly more pleased with his voice this time.

"What?" John asked, his voice sounding strained.

"Me or you...?"

"... What?" John asked weakly.

"Was it me pissing myself or... you having to go so bad?"

John shifted uncomfortably. "This was planned..."

Sherlock nodded slightly. He was caught... but he _was_ still sitting in a puddle of his own piss, his trousers defiled and his mind a bit hazy, so he figured he may as well go all the way.

"After the... the train, I had to know," he murmured.

"The trai- oh, yeah..." John trailed off. "You..." He took a deep breath. "You look so... so..." he shook his head slightly, "when you're desperate for a piss. And then reduced to this..." He waved his hands briefly at the mess. "But I also understand why you find holding your piss so... attractive," he muttered, briefly placing his hand on his bladder. "It's not healthy," he added. "I don't like that bit of it."

Sherlock, who had gotten his breath back now, stood up. The puddle splashed under his feet and cooling urine rolled down his legs.

"You still haven't answered, but I'll take it as a combination of both," he said. "I suppose my question now is... are you disgusted?"

He was proud of himself. His voice was much more steady than it had _any_ right to be, given their conversation and the fact that he was dripping in piss. And that John had a very obvious erection.

The moment seemed to stretch before John shook his head slightly.

Sherlock beamed.

* * *

 "Sherlock, I can't do this- oh, _fuck_ , I've got to piss!" John squirmed in his armchair. "I can't piss in the chair, Sherlock, I can't. It's such a mess."

Sherlock was seated on the armrest awkwardly, his cheeks feeling flush as he watched his flatmate squirm. "I've pissed the sofa before. It's not as bad as you think and it cleans up nicely."

John's breath caught as he stared up at Sherlock. "You _pissed_ the _sofa_??"

"On purpose," Sherlock added. "It was hot and wet and-"

"Sherlock!"

John gasped, starting to stand. "No, I'm sorry, I can't."

Sherlock felt his face fall. He tried to keep his expression neutralised, but he knew from John's eyes that he failed.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I want to, it _hurts_ -" John sank back into his chair, trembling from head to foot. "I can't. I can't, not here, it's our sitting room, I can't-"

Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder. "Stop. John, i-it's fine. I mean... the first time's awkward. Do you... You might have better results if you were actually in the bathroom. The urge to urinate increases, oddly enough, when you finally have the chance at relief, so maybe if we placed you in front of the toilet-"

John whimpered, actually whimpered. It was clear that he was trying very hard not to lose control- even though they had talked about it and decided to try it, at least once- as Sherlock spoke of the relief he needed.

"Come on," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. He offered his hand. "If not, I'll walk away and let you in peace to do what you need."

John clamped his sweating hand into Sherlock's, practically dancing on the spot as he stood. Sherlock placed his hand against John's back and guided him to the bathroom.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John moaned, stopping so abruptly that Sherlock accidentally bumped into him. "I can't..."

"It's okay," Sherlock murmured gently. "Relax, John..." He rubbed his hand against John's back comfortingly. "Just relax..." he whispered, his lips placing an unwarranted kiss against John's shoulder.

His hair must have brushed John's neck, because John jumped harshly. Sherlock was about to hastily apologise when John sucked in his breath in a sharp gasp.

Yes, yes, _yes_.

John struggled away from Sherlock, but Sherlock locked his fingers around John's wrist.

"John-" The noise was foreign on his lips, even though he had said John's name over and over again through cases and casual conversation. It made his throat feel strange and his stomach do a few unnatural flip-flops.

John met Sherlock's gaze, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, but Sherlock met his gaze evenly and refused to look away until he was sure that John was alright.

Sherlock saw the change in John's face, his shoulders slumping, his eyes closing. Something buried very deep within Sherlock growled in triumph and it took all the self-control Sherlock had not to jump John Watson right then and there and fuck him senseless.

Well.

 _That_ was new.

Instead, Sherlock let his eyes rove to John's trousers, which were covered in dark patches and winding rivers of John's musky-smelling piss.

"Oh... Sherlock..." John murmured, his voice barely reaching a whisper.

Sherlock groaned in the back of his throat, reaching to steady John as the good doctor's knees buckled.

They stayed like that for a long time, after John had long since stopped voiding his bladder, Sherlock's hands gripping his arms and John breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and face sweaty.

"... If you weren't straight and I not asexual," Sherlock murmured, "I would kiss you right now."

John grunted slightly. "Don't push it."

"Never," Sherlock agreed.

They had talked about this. They had- both- agreed that, while there was some intimacy to have within this game itself, there was _nothing_ else to come from it except from the piss play. John _was_ straight and Sherlock _couldn't_ be arsed with romance, but he was quite sure that they were both going to get two spectacular orgasms out of it.

After John had closed himself into the shower, Sherlock snuck off to John's room and came spectacularly with a groan.

* * *

Sherlock rolled his weight from the heel to the balls of his feet.

He was uncomfortable. Not just because he hadn't had a piss in seven and a half hours, but because he was wearing _jeans_ , of all inane things.

John had insisted. Sherlock couldn't turn him down, not when, after the initial experiment, John had been so willing to continue their games.

Still, Sherlock had had to go out and actually _buy_ a pair of blue jeans- light blue on John's suggestion- so he could have a pair.

He felt so very awkward.

John was sitting on the bathroom countertop, the cabinet door under the sink clacking everytime his bouncing ankle hit it.

"Seven and a half hours, John. With all of your blasted tea," Sherlock said, blowing a breath out though his nose. "Compared to your six."

"Doesn't matter," John said in a clipped tone. "It just means you'll crack first. And when you piss yourself silly, I'm going to actually laugh."

Sherlock's pants dampened as something unidentifiable dribbled from his cock. Urine, sweat, or pre-cum? Still, he pressed his thighs together slightly, not missing John's interested look.

They were both in the bathroom, the doors closed firmly and locked. Mrs. Hudson was out and they were expecting no one, but it was better to be on the safe side with such things.

"Want some water, John?" Sherlock asked, sinking onto the edge of the bathtub. "You know that you need to stay hydrated... and imagine how wonderful the feeling of more liquid hitting your already overly full bladder would feel. And as you take the desperate step towards the toilet, you can feel the liquid sloshing around, taunting you, slowly travelling down your cock to trickle tantilisingly into your pants as you lose control..."

Unfortunately, Sherlock's piss talk worked both ways. While John's legs suddenly found themselves crossed, Sherlock had to pause as he felt more wetness seep into his pants.

"And you," John added huskily. "You're going to fucking piss yourself like a helpless child, trickling down your legs and pooling around your arse, dripping onto your feet."

Sherlock groaned, the sound resonating in his chest.

There was something _spectacular_ about John cursing. It shot all of Sherlock's control to pieces and left him shuddering in need.

His bladder cramped and warmth trickled from his cock. It seeped into his trousers, most likely darkening the lining of these wretched jeans. Sherlock pressed his thighs together tightly again.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, if you're pissing yourself, the game's up!"

Sherlock raised his head quickly. "If I was pissing myself, we would both know it!" he retorted hotly, staring down John.

John's expression softened. "You're close. You're really close, yeah?" He took a deep breath. "Impressive, Sherlock, but you're still going to lose."

Sherlock straightened in defiance. "Stand up," he demanded.

"What? No, I'm not-"

"Stand up!" Sherlock ordered, getting to his feet painfully. "On your feet, Watson."

John's eyes tightened, although he reflexively lifted his chin slightly before sliding to his feet. He could never resist a direct order, especially not from someone who was six foot one and had controlling, demanding eyes.

John stood straight and met his gaze evenly, although dark red was starting to stain across his cheekbones.

"Losing control when you're unable to sit still?" Sherlock murmured, taking a small step closer. "Gravity pushes down upon your bladder, forcing all of your pent-up piss into your trousers." Sherlock's muscles spasmed and a jet of slippery, hot piss soaked into his pants. He pressed on. "Come on, John, you know you can't last-"

John gave a gasp that was only ever meant for Sherlock's ears as he reached out and grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's t-shirt. Sherlock's eyes cast downwards as a loud hissing filled the air, and John's jeans were staining, soaking, he was losing control-

Piss flooded into his own jeans and Sherlock moaned noisily as his bladder emptied itself.

His forehead pillowed itself against John's shoulder, John's fingers never once leaving Sherlock's t-shirt. When their rivers of piss had stopped flowing, both of their jeans were soaked, their messes combining into one obscene pool beneath their feet. Sherlock was breathing heavily, so was John, and both of their hearts were racing out of control.

Fingers brushing against his clothed cock made Sherlock yelp.

John snapped away so quickly that their piss splashed noisily beneath their feet. Sherlock stared with wide eyes at John, his hand half extended to stop him from moving away. John looked nearly as shocked, and infinitely more embarrassed.

"S-Sorry," John gasped. "I just, I-"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, drawing in a breath. "You just... surprised me. It was... good. It was really good."

John's gaze floated back to Sherlock's zip. Sherlock squirmed, in need of a different release now.

"Can I..." John's voice was shy. He licked his lips. "Can I bring you off...? Just... Just like this..."

"I thought nothing could happen with us," Sherlock murmured.

"It won't. It isn't. I just... I want to see you... I want to know what you look like when you spill into your trousers... again."

Sherlock moaned in the back of his throat, nodding quickly. He didn't _care_ who or what got him off, as long as his tortured cock got to expel. "Can I take my jeans off, though?" he asked, bobbing impatiently on the balls of his feet. "They're turning cold. I'm wearing pants," he added, as an afterthought.

As if that mattered. Well, it must matter. John was shy. Didn't want to touch him directly, but- _fuck_ , Sherlock needed _someone_ to hurry up and do _something_. It took all his self-control not to draw himself out and quickly draw himself to a desperate climax in front of John.

John nodded, his gaze not leaving Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock shucked off his sopping jeans, pressing eagerly into John's hesitant hand. John's slight inhale was the final provokation that he needed to be fully hard, although his transport wasn't going to let it last. It only took barely over a half dozen strokes through the soaking fabric of his binding pants to bring Sherlock to his edge and he went off moaning John's name into the doctor's jumper.

John must have, too, because, when Sherlock re-emerged from his post-orgasmic bliss a few hazy moments later, John was breathing hard again.

"Impressive, Sherlock," John whispered again. "Very impressive..."

"... Extraordinary?" Sherlock questioned weakly.

" _Quite_ extraordinary..." John murmured.

Sherlock smiled absently.

Oh, how he loved their partnership.

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I wrote a bunch of watersports before I actually an AO3 account, so now I'm trying to get them posted. Hopefully no one really minds the sudden occurrence of watersports for this fandom.
> 
> More piss play is on the agenda for our daring duo.


End file.
